Edgar and I
by MissEmilyPoe
Summary: Young Edgar Allan Poe is in for a thrill when a girl from the future, Emily, who is obsessed with his work, literally falls into his arms. But with dark forces at work, can their love last? Can they unravel the tangled mystery of her appearance?


**Rated T to be safe, for later chapters. (Violence/gore? I don't know…)**

**I borrowed a lot from Poe's works (especially "The Island of the Fay" in this first chapter), as well as from the known history of his life—but, as this is a fanfiction, I obviously had to change a few things. ;) This is just a tribute to him and an exercise in writing… as well as, I admit, a venture into the fanciful realms of my mind. And yes, I know, I'm over-romanticizing the whole thing, but isn't that what fanfiction is for? I'm also aware that Poe was **_**nowhere near**_** the handsome, strapping young lad I make him out to be here, but writers have to exaggerate from time to time! Get over it!**

**Reviews/critiques would be very much appreciated!**

**Oh, and this is my first story. So be nice… or not. I honestly don't care.**

**To be extra clear, Emily is from the future. o.O That's why she's wearing jean shorts and a t-shirt, which would have been pretty slutty back then. Also, think of her appearance scene almost like the transportation of the TARDIS, but without the weird noises.**

"_E. P., April 11__th__, 1826_

_There is one pleasure still within the reach of fallen mortality—and perhaps only one—which owes even more than does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the man who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude behold that glory…"_

Here I trailed off, suddenly overwhelmed by that glory. I sat in blissful repose for a few moments. In a sense, I realized, even a pen is often too much like a companion for a writer, and he must exercise fervent self-control in simply laying it down and observing his surroundings, if he wishes to write accurately. I must note that usually it is a writer's job to twist and manipulate a mundane event, object, or scene into something fantastic using only the brute force of his creativity, but when such a landscape as here was sprawled out before me—the dark valleys, the gray rocks, the waters that silently smile, and the forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains that look down on all—is laid before him, he cannot help but be content to merely find words _suitable_ for such grandeur, and nothing more. As I mentioned, here I laid down my pen, sat down by a peacefully gurgling stream, and indulged in sweet rest, letting my mind flirt with the possibility of sleep and my eyes shift so unseeingly that I could scarce tell if they were open or closed—and whether the vision I saw then was real or imaginary.

_So blended bank and shadow there,_

_That each seemed pendulous in air—_

Suddenly, the shady bank and stream, which had blended in my sleep-ridden mind, were disturbed by a sudden flash, as if lightning had struck—and without a cloud in the sky! I was too far engulfed in repose by then, though, that it did little to awaken my fancy—until, and here my heart leapt in my chest a long minute before I could understand why, I perceived what seemed to be the lower half of an ancient Grecian statue, tumbled over, and with the upper half being concealed by a clump of fragrant honeysuckle. I was staring, still in a dream-like, but certainly curious, state of mind, at the smooth, feminine, ivory legs, when I realized several things in quick succession.

The first of them was that the statue had fallen in the exact spot that the flash of light had struck only a moment before.

Secondly, I realized that the statue seemed to be flickering, flitting in and out of reality—one second, the verdant grass underneath it was visible, with a small depression in the soil marking the former position of the object, and the next it was covered by the strange apparition. The tempo of this vacillating slowed over the course of a few seconds, and only when they were fully visible and unmoving did I, thirdly, realize that the pair of legs were—though pale—far too warm in color to be made of marble.

It occurred to me, to my horror, that the statue was not a statue at all.

A shift in their position and a pained cry emanating from the region of the bushes, along with the sudden rivulet of blood flowing from a large gash in the woman's calf, cemented the revelation in my mind. I rose and stood like a terror-struck woodland creature for an exceedingly long time, torn between the idea that the poor creature needed help—that as a gentleman it was my _duty_ to help her—and the impropriety of her lack of covering from middle of the thigh down—that, as a gentleman, it was my duty to avert my eyes. I felt a heavy blush rising furiously in my cheeks. Finally, the sound of a few pitiful sobs softened my heart and startled me into action.

"Pardon me, m-madam…" I stuttered, taking a few steps in the direction of the honeysuckle clump, where I hoped to find her torso more decently clad.

As I rounded the bush, she looked up at me with an expression of utter surprise. Her eyes, wide and lined with a fan of heavy lashes, were tinted with red from crying and there was, I noticed, on her cheeks a blush that nearly matched my own. Then a quizzical expression lit upon her countenance and she immediately cast her gaze downward, as did I, ashamed that I had not averted my eyes sooner.

"Where _am_ I?" she inquired of no one in particular, though I took it upon myself to answer her: "Madam, you are presently deep into the wooded region of the land surrounding Virginia University."

Without thought she continued with, "And who are _you_?"—her voice carrying an almost accusing air. While I could not see them, I was certain those long-lashed, piney green eyes were boring into me. Quite without knowing why, I became cognizant of the disheveled state of my long dark hair and my rumpled attire.

I was somewhat startled by the question, and while I attempted to flatten my hair and straighten my waistcoat, I answered again, haltingly, "Allow me the pleasure of introducing myself: my name is Eddy Allan." I was not quite sure why I used that variation of my name, when most at the University were accustomed to calling me by my real name, Edgar Poe. Then I inquired, "And what might your name be?"

"Hm. I'm Emily. Please' to meet you. I think I may have cracked a rib or two, and my leg feels like it's dislocated…" Her discourse ended in a sharp inward gasp as she attempted to prop herself upright.

"Oh! Let me fetch help immediately—"

"No!" she called as I took a step in the direction of the nearest University building, "I—I don't know how I got here. I think I might have…" she trailed off. "Ugh, I don't _know_! I don't know, I don't know, _I don't know! _I'm… afraid if you leave I m-might pass out. I don't wanna pass out." I could hear the suppressed edge of pain bordering on desperation in her slurred speech. Again I paused, unsure of myself, then sighed and replied as calmly as I could, "Tell me what you wish me to do."

"Get over here and help me up!"

"Then I have your permission… then, you don't mind if I…?" I said, obviously flustered, my eyes fixed on some faraway tree in the opposite direction.

"What? Spit it out!"

Though I was unfamiliar with the phrase I deduced its meaning. "Madam, I'm going to have to look at you in order to help you. And considering your, well, your…"

She let out a long sigh. "You may, sir."

I had no choice. I looked. I had never seen such clothes—if indeed they could be called clothes—ever in my life. A simple piece of thin fabric of a striking bright green color was all that covered her upper half. Its sleeves were cut loosely about the middle of her upper arm. In vain I tried to restrain myself from investigating the scandalous scrap of strange, faded blue material, frayed at the edges, that clung to her form and barely reached the middle of her thigh.

"How may I be of assistance?" I breathed.

"Hmm… well, I can't even get up. Can you… carry me?" she asked, obviously just as uncomfortable as I.

"Of course."

"Wait!" she said as began to lift her from the ground. "I have a huge cut on my calf, don't I?"

"Oh, yes, I should bandage it before we go, shouldn't I?" How stupid of me! I smiled sheepishly at her for lingering moment before I set about finding a suitable bandage. Finding none, I realized that I would have to use some article of my own clothing as a substitute, especially considering that _she_ had none to spare. I removed my waistcoat and shirt with haste.

"Oh! No, you don't have to do that!" she exclaimed.

"Lady, I insist," I said as I tore the hem of the shirt into long strips.

I avoided her gaze, which I somehow knew was still upon me, as I worked at first cleansing and dressing the wound. She winced and gasped several times, but not once did she cry out.

"Am I hurting you?" I asked once, genuinely concerned.

"Oh, no, I'm fine," she replied, steeling herself. Finally I let myself look at her again, and this time I found a depth of gratitude in her eyes that astounded me.

"Thank you." Her lip quivered.

"Madam, are you sure you're alr—"

Then she broke into a fit of sobs. At first she raised her hands to her reddened face, but after a few moments she reached out her arms as if to embrace me, fresh tears still streaking her cheeks and waves of misery still racking her broken form. I knew not what to do, but in a moment of confusion, obliged, and awkwardly cradled her head in my bosom while her arms wrapped tightly about my waist. Finally, after what seemed like half-an-hour, she succeeded in regaining her breath and composure and we, by silent mutual agreement, quietly disentangled ourselves from each other's grasp, regaining the comfortable distance that had initially existed between us. With a final wince she pulled her legs in toward her body and rested her chin on her knees.

"I'm so sorry…" she said. "I honestly have no idea where I am. And I'm injured, and you've just been so kind to me, and…"

"It is merely decent of me to help a young woman in such a time of desperate need. Think nothing of it."

After a pause, she asked, "What did you say your name was again? I'm so sorry, I'm horrible with names."

"Edgar…" I scarcely murmured, transfixed by her curious gaze as I rose from my kneeling position on the ground.

"That's a nice na—"

A low growl interrupted her, coupled with the crash and tumble of an animal barreling toward me. Terror ripped at my heart.

"Stop, Darcy, no!" Emily cried in a commanding tone, and I heard a scuffle as if the beast had skidded to a stop amid a pile of dry leaves. I slowly turned. A deerhound of considerable stature stood with its head low and its grey muzzle gathered in a fierce snarl. I could see its muscles, tight as bowstrings, twitching beneath its wiry coat.

"It's okay, Mister Darcy, this nice young man is helping Momma," she said with a smile and a stifled laugh. Then, under her breath, "I wonder how he got here…"

At that, as though he could understand perfectly, the fearsome rumble died in his throat and he adopted a stately mien that befitted his breed, though his manner still seemed wary of my presence.

"Yes, well…" I murmured. "Let's be off."

I reached down and cautiously picked her up, threading my left arm under her bare knees and the other around her lower back, careful not to get in the way of an odd satchel that was attached by two straps to her back that I had not noticed before. She settled as comfortably as she could, with her arms about my neck and her head resting on my chest, and I began to walk, with her dog trotting along tirelessly behind us. Several times I tried to muster the courage to ask her if she knew at all how she had gotten there, but failed. I almost succeeded once—but when I looked at her I perceived that her neck was completely slack and that her face bore the innocent expression of a sleeping child, with just the hint of a smile resting on her petal-smooth lips, and I could not bear to disturb her. So I walked on in heavy, but not altogether lonesome, silence. I wondered if she were dreaming.

My last thought as I gave in to the peaceful, monotonous rhythm of the journey and the stillness of the evening was that it would be impossible to get even half-way to the University before nightfall.


End file.
